


Blueschist

by thecountessolivia



Series: The Anastomosis Snapshots [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brief and mild breath play, Domestic, Fluff, Hanni-tum, Hot Beach Hanni, M/M, Post-Fall, Slightly possessive and butch Will, Uh... fancy rocks?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13439064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: This being Will and Hannibal, beach sex comes with conversations about morality, nature, beauty etc. And soft fat bellies.Kindly translated intoRussianbylizashi





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Assume this is set in the same 'verse as [Pelt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12890007) and [After Dinner](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12917154/chapters/29514102).

Choosing an elevated seafront property for a home ought to have been ridiculous, considering. Yet in the end no other place would do. Will chalks it up to some new breed of perverse sentimentality, born of their survival: the desire and the need to live on the precarious seams of the world.

So here they are: in a white, sprawling two story built on a cliff, with breathtaking views of a different ocean, warmer than the one which almost kept them for good the year prior. Even if it weren't the only building for miles, the house would still qualify as secluded by virtue of being a pain in the ass to get to. A barely paved, narrow path — just big enough for a car to manoeuvre — splinters off from the inland part of the coastal road and twists like a ribbon up to their gate. The loose rocks on either side threaten hubcaps and bumpers. The frequent mud is deadly to ankles. Will tried to cycle up the path's steep incline once and nearly fainted halfway up.

The odd tourist making their way between resort towns sometimes stops by the side of the road and takes a photo of the distant, picturesque house on the cliff. Will doesn't mind. The shy or the lazy ones would never bother making the trip up the top. The curious ones would, but they'd find the gate locked, the winds bracing and the stares of Will's two newly adopted mastiff mix strays decidedly uninviting. If some poor bastard ever managed to get past those hurdles and meet the house's occupants — Will doesn't want to think about it. The ocean isn't picky about what you throw into it.

From the oceanside, it's another story. There, the house opens up onto a wide and wild world — their world. A set of tall windows along a covered porch overlooks a tiered rock garden of hardy herbs and succulents, cut through with paths that all join at the mouth of a staircase. The staircase and its hundreds of perilous steps drop down and down along the cliff to the black sand beach below.

The porch is where Will has often had evenings of pure incredulity. After a long, easy day he'd find himself there, sat quietly with a glass of something mild and well-aged in hand. The funeral shroud of night would descend over the cliffs and the waves, pinpricked by a million stars. Inside, behind him, through the tall open windows: the bright lights of their home, the smell of an open fire and Hannibal at the piano, playing— oh, whatever would strike Hannibal's fancy. Lately it had been Schubert's "Serenade". The notes would sail out through the tangle of net curtains, past the porch and towards the dark ocean, while Will sat and wondered at the impossible dream-like quality of it all. Sometimes he'd shake with silent laughter until tears ran down his face. He hoped Hannibal would never, ever catch him at it.

In the mornings, Will goes for a run along the cliffs. He stops sometimes to take in the mercurial clouds and the ever-changing colors of the waves, or to observe some sun-warmed lizard going about its business. When he makes it back to the house, he greets the dogs and, more often than not, walks to the edge of the steps to observe Hannibal on the beach down below.

As soon as he was well enough, Hannibal began to swim nearly every day, regardless of weather. A wetsuit in winter, black swimming trunks now that the late summer has made the water mellow. Will usually catches him on the last pass through the waves: a tiny distant figure of mobile human flesh under a vast and empty sky. The perspective is a cause of daily struggle for Will: Hannibal appearing in any way insignificant gives him a major case of cognitive dissonance.

The morning routine ends like this: Will waits for Hannibal to finish swimming, drying, dressing and conquering the stairs. At the top, Hannibal greets Will with a courtly kiss that's somehow never out of breath. Sometimes he brings Will a gift from below: a feather; an iridescent shell; the sun-bleached skull of some marine creature; once, what may or may not have been a piece of ancient pottery. Will keeps these gifts in a bedside drawer and examines them one by one like clues to a mystery.

Today begins with a fine sunny morning. The sky is clear and the even waves move in a steady rhythm, like a great breath. Something makes Will cut his run short. It may be a whim, it may be a spontaneous desire to fuck with Hannibal's love of ritual. He turns back after a mile, takes the dogs inside the house then makes his way down the staircase, towards the beach.

He's just in time and, best of all, isn't spotted. Hannibal has finished his swim and has settled, back to Will, on a bank of rocks still sheltered from the sun in the receding shade of the cliff. Will stops on the last step, leans against a cliff wall with folded arms, and watches and thinks.

In his past life Hannibal loomed large, ever the centerpiece of the artifice he created and the spectacle he sowed — even in prison, and certainly in Will's dreams and psyche. Until they stripped each other raw, Hannibal moved from charade to showmanship. Out here, small and alone and nearly naked beneath a rock face that could crush him and at the whim of a wave that could snatch him up, Hannibal is nothing more than a common mortal predator. The ocean teems with them, and their ordinary slaughter.

When Hannibal slips off his swimming trunks, Will makes his move. He toes out of off his sneakers and stalks quickly, gingerly over the rough black sand. Closer and closer, until he can reach out and, after a pause to savour the moment, lay a hand on the damp skin of Hannibal's back, just above the mar of Mason's brand.

In a split second there's a hand on Will's throat, another on his arm and the bulk of Hannibal's presence is bearing down on him. Will staggers back a step, then leans in deliberately and grins. _That's more like it_ , he thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

Will can't stop grinning. He takes small, broken breaths through the tight grip on his neck. He clamps both hands around Hannibal's wrist.

"This is a rare treat," Hannibal murmurs above the sound of the waves. He's close enough now that Will can smell the sun and salt on his skin. The vice on Will's throat loosens by degrees.

"Don't usually feel like trekking back up those stairs after doing six sweaty miles," Will says when his breathing permits. "Still want my kiss though."

Hannibal's palms skim over Will's shoulders, up over his neck again to cradle his face. Will gets his kiss. It's light and quick — more of a peck — and leaves him wanting.

"You didn't do your six miles. You came here instead."

"Yeah. I came here instead. Why so jumpy? You knew it was me."

Hannibal takes Will by the hand and draws them down onto the sand to sit side by side in the last of the shade, overlooking the water. The wind is kinder today, warmer. It dances in short bursts about them. The morning sun has set the waves ablaze.

"Of course I knew it was you. I think if I made the effort, I could smell you all the way from the top of the cliff."

Will frowns a little and lifts one arm to give himself a passing sniff. "That bad?"

"A hyperbole — don't worry yourself. In answer to your question: I thought you might enjoy a small reminder of my nature."

Will looks over at Hannibal. He lets himself stare at all that skin. The muscles shifting in Hannibal's shoulders as he leans back on his hands, the flex of long, lean legs stretched out and folded in front of him. The familiar shape of his cock. The rolls of soft flesh at his waist. Hannibal seems in no hurry to get dressed.

"I was thinking about your nature, as it happens."

"Oh? Tell me."

"Later. Promise." Will leans over and spreads a hand over Hannibal's stomach. He presses into the padding there. "You're filling out again. You were looking way too skinny for a while."

"Inevitable. Middle age is rarely kind to the male midriff," Hannibal says, without a hint of self-consciousness. Of course Will's touch and its intent are more important than Hannibal's vanity. Of course he only shifts closer when Will grabs at the flesh.

"You've been observing my body closely of late. I can cite a number of specific incidents."

"I had to observe it for months to make sure it didn't die. Kinda became a habit."

"You protected it. Protection and possession often go hand in hand."

"Is this possessive?" Will kneads and pinches his handful, eyes on Hannibal's face.

Will doesn't need an answer. With the last of the cliff shade in retreat, Hannibal reclines on one elbow, basking in the sun's baking rays on a bed of black sand. Will feels the first faint stir of arousal. He can't bring himself to break contact. His hand against Hannibal's skin forms a fist and twists slowly into the soft cushion of Hannibal's paunch. The hair at his navel is still damp and clingy from his swim. Will wants to nuzzle it.

"I remember when I first noticed you had a belly."

Hannibal covers Will's hand with his own. His fingertips brush over Will's wrist, caressing, encouraging. "Oh? When did you first notice it?"

"Your prison getup. Didn't know you had an ounce of fat on you. Thought all of you was made of... hard angles. It made sense. Your suits hid you well."

"And do you remember what you thought of it then?"

Will works to gather a fragmented memory into an articulated whole. It struck him then and strikes him now. "I thought about how this soft and ordinary part of you was formed, at least in part, from the meat of your victims."

Hannibal is silent for a moment, gaze turned towards the ocean. His hand strays from Will's, reaching up to stroke the scar on Will's cheek. "Did the thought trouble you?"

"It troubled me that this was, at a cellular level, Nature working according to her design. Doesn't matter if it's you fattening yourself on human flesh or a shark grabbing you during one of your swims and tearing through your corpse. It's all the same. One life flowing into another. Just as intended."

Hannibal smiles, eyes now fixed on Will. "There is much beauty to be found in Nature's stark truths. And the more we see, the more fragile the veil of human morality becomes."

Will's nails rake over the skin of Hannibal's stomach. He thinks of a poem Hannibal read him some weeks ago. "Yeah. And what did that poet say about beauty? Nothing but the beginning of terror."

Hannibal inclines his head with a smug and pleased expression and it's this that makes Will grab at the hand on his cheek. He shoves and moves until he's got Hannibal on his back, wrists held down, right over the scars there. He meets no resistance. "I could do without being reminded of some truths. For sanity's sake," he says and drags Hannibal's pinned hands through the rough sand.

A slow smile spreads over Hannibal's lips. All of him is yielding and pliant beneath Will: hard muscle, damp chest hair, freshly tanned skin, the softer parts of him — all for the taking. The sun smooths over his sharp features and deepens the lines of mirth around his eyes. Will leans down and kisses those lines, then Hannibal's eyelids. He flicks his tongue against the seam of Hannibal's lips, teasing them open until he can lick the sharp edges of Hannibal's teeth.

He presses his hips down once and feels the stiffening heat of Hannibal's cock against his own. The sun is whipping his back, spurring him on. "I like having you like this," he says.

Hannibal exhales a slow and shaky breath that washes over Will's face. His arms flex in Will's grip, just enough to test its strength. "Having me how?"

"Stripped of pretense. Not even a bed to set the scene. No candles, no wine," Will says against Hannibal's mouth, then suckles and tugs at his lower lip until it slips free. He loosens his grasp and drags his nails over Hannibal's palms. "No fucking Schubert."

He sits up to straddle Hannibal's thighs and takes him in again, pinned and splayed against the sand. Eyes half-mast and turned light amber by the sun, arms thrown overhead where Will had left them, dick hard against the softness of his belly. Will shrugs out of his t-shirt then palms himself once through his shorts. He must like this more than he can say: his cock has leaked through the thin fabric already. He watches Hannibal's nostrils flare minutely.

"I think I'm going to suck you off. Or ask you to jerk off while I watch. Can't decide."

Hannibal reaches up to Will, as if to touch, then hesitates. His arm falls away and he touches himself instead, fingers coiled and moving loosely, up and down the length of his cock. His eyes never leave Will and his expression is— Will can't say exactly. Raw. Expectant.

"Anything, Will. Do as you like."

"Just keep going," Will mutters then inches down the length of Hannibal's body, knees scraping against the sand, until he's close enough for Hannibal to guide his cock to his mouth. Will leans in with a sigh and brushes his lips over the slit, back and forth, painting them with the first drop of precome. He looks up, making sure Hannibal sees. There's the faintest tremor in Hannibal's touch when his thumb moves over Will's lips to smear through the slick shine. Will sucks it clean.

"You should see your eyes right now, in this light," Hannibal says softly. And then his head falls back because Will bats Hannibal's hand away, grips his dick tightly at the base and coils his tongue hard over the head. Hannibal tastes of the ocean — heat and salt and brine that Will can't get enough off. He breathes in hard and lets himself moan as he sinks down the full length of Hannibal's cock. He takes the head into his throat, lodging it there until he's fighting for breath; comes up for air, then does it again and again until his eyes sting with tears. Underneath him, Hannibal can't keep still. He shifts and arches, fingers raking through the sand. Will wishes he could see his face, but the straining tendons and the hard swallows passing down his throat are enough.

Will pulls back with a gasp and pants hard for breath. His hips are grinding down into the sand, the skin there sticky now with sweat. He reaches down with his free hand to shove down his shorts and kick them away.

"Will. If you— " Hannibal peers up and his words come between stuttered breaths. "If you'd like to touch yourself. Oil. There."  
  
Will gropes for the bottle of tanning oil next to Hannibal's swim bag and flicks the cap open. He sits up and spills the scented slickness straight onto Hannibal's straining cock, then his own. He moves up again and wraps his hand around them both, thumb rubbing and teasing over the heads, more and more urgent. "I wish I'd known you'd brought this stuff," he gasps, forehead pressed to Hannibal's. "I'd have fucked you out here."

Hannibal drags him down for a kiss, hands pulling through Will's hair, tongue fucking deep into Will's mouth. "Tonight. Come back down with me. Have me in the water if you wish."

Will nods once with a short, shaky laugh then sinks back into the kiss. He shuts his eyes tight and jerks them both hard, too hard, through the hot slippery mess of sweat, oil and precome. Pleasure sweeps him up until not a thought remains — only the friction of sand and warm tacky skin, Hannibal's taste and groans in his mouth and Hannibal's hands on his ass, digging in and urging him on. It's the hand on his throat again, choking out his moans, that pulls him under. Will's head spins and he's coming hard and thick against Hannibal's cock, fighting for breath. His fist can't stop, even when he squirms, oversensitive, until he feels Hannibal's come pool hot over his fingers.

And then there is only their two easing breaths and their two bodies, spent and tangled under a vast empty sky.

\---  
  
After the ocean washes them clean, they doze in the sand.

The sun is speeding to its zenith. It won't be long until they'll be forced to get up and remove themselves from its glare. Besides, neither of them has had breakfast and the complaints issuing from Will's stomach can be heard above the waves.

Will sits up, reluctantly, and shakes the sand from his shorts. "Forgot to ask. Did you get me anything today?"

"Your gift. Of course. I did, as a matter of fact." Hannibal reaches for the bag that contains his towel and change of clothes. "Your hand, please."

Will closes his eyes and extends his palm. Something small, rough and cool is placed there. He looks down and finds a fragment of rock, slightly bigger than his thumb. Battered and pockmarked, as if shed by some passing asteroid, it contains as many hues of vibrant blue as Will has ever seen in the fickle sky above. He touches the rock with a small gasp.

"Blueschist, I believe," Hannibal says. "Found in fragments in our very own cliffs. This chip was exceptional in its hue."

Will laughs, incredulous. "Blueschist. It's not a metamorphic rock by any chance, is it? Its true nature formed under intense heat and pressure?"

Hannibal stares at Will, as if startled. "Formed into something quite beautiful, don't you think?"

Will smooths his thumb over the rough stone, turns it over in his hand. It _is_ beautiful.

"Only you would give me a metaphorical metamorphic rock, Hannibal."

Hannibal is still for a moment, then leans in to brush Will's brow with a kiss. He stands and begins to dress. "There are times when you discover layers of meaning behind my actions before my own subconscious has had a chance to catch up."

Will blinks up. "Do I? So— why did you get this for me in the first place?"

Hannibal doesn't look at Will when he answers.

"The colors reminded me of your eyes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror" is courtesy of [Rilke](http://www.homestar.org/bryannan/duino.html). Is this a well-known quote? I have no idea.
> 
> [Metamorphic rocks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metamorphic_rock)
> 
> Blueschist looks like [this](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=&tbm=isch&tbs=rimg:CXgxY1jwkTyEIjhB6QKXhqxSMeP7dU17LRWzOy3qt1pj62UJPenIR7Lz_1j9hMn7BzG3ovcRfmTHgRtq1v8REL0u4UCoSCUHpApeGrFIxEZOrecmkCnotKhIJ4_1t1TXstFbMR-vMT4CsAp6wqEgk7Leq3WmPrZRGdVn26AxURWSoSCQk96chHsvP-EU3U2J3V7fi0KhIJP2EyfsHMbegRUSonyso5dFsqEgm9xF-ZMeBG2hFRKifKyjl0WyoSCbW_1xEQvS7hQEf_1NpbvI419B&tbo=u&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjr9evMjOnYAhXHvxQKHaUfBBUQ9C8IHw&biw=1440&bih=749&dpr=1#imgrc=CT3pyEey8_5VuM:). 
> 
> I have no freaking clue where you can find blueschist, or if it lies around in chunks that can be collected. Damnit, Jim, I'm a fanfic writer, not a geologist.


End file.
